


Enchanted Wares and Business Affairs

by TheresDragonsHere



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer/Bosmer - Freeform, Drama, F/M, Not the Dragonborn, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheresDragonsHere/pseuds/TheresDragonsHere
Summary: A simple dream has complicated workings, and the web of influence in Solitude is not headed by Elisif. Sometimes we would do anything to get what we want, and Mertäg wants nothing more than to open her own shop. In cases of such a closed market, a hand from a high place is always welcome. Erikur isn't known for playing by the book though. When you're far too wound up in passion and dreams, things can go wrong very quickly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> May not be finished, but I thought I would post it anyway.

“Next,” came the Nordic lull of Falk Firebeard over the high balcony. The usual suspects of the court were present yet unable to bring themselves to pay attention to the needs of the many lined across the upper floor and winding down the stairs to the foyer.  


Elisif sat stiff as an oak in her throne, her standard gold and ruby circlet sparkling in the white and blue light dancing in from the high windows all around. She seemed paralyzed between the booming of yells and demands. Firebeard went unphased and stern against the attempts to derail Elisif, growing horns against the belligerent and vengeful to meet them head on. Bolgeir Bearclaw preferred to loom; his presence was entirely in his control and could dial up on demand.  


The air was both angry and sultry; everyone present to see Jarl Elisif was raging over the removal of the Shrine to Talos from the temple of the Divines. Many men, and very few mer. The climate put a natural target on the back of Mertäg’s head. Nords itched to jump at Elves with the war reaching a boil. Mertäg felt the eyes boring into her and did her best to keep her own pointing exactly where she was to go; she held no great desire to fight anyone.  


“State your business, Elf.” Firebeard’s ending spit of ‘elf’ was met with a murmur in the ear from the court wizard. Sybille Stentor retreated from his broad shoulder. “Pardon me… State your business, m’lady.”  


In a smaller town - Falkreath or Winterhold - she would have no need to make such a formal request. “Seeking permission to open a proper shop, in the first level of my house.”  


“Ah, Mertäg… You’ve been permitted to open a stall haven’t you? Do you not have one in the courtyard?”  


“I have,” she glanced across the denizens of the court. “I’m doing quite well though, a brick and mortar store would - is possible. Mages from all over have started to come for my wares.”  


Firebeard and Elisif had a silent conversation. “We already have a clothing store, Radiant Raiment. In case you forgot.”  


Bolgeir broke the sultry air with a stifled snort. Firebeard smothered a grin. He turned to Elisif. She furrowed her brow and shakily gave her read of the situation.  


“I think it’s best if we focus on our top priorities right now. Permits for new shops will be reconsidered after the war is over.”  


“A most wise decision, your highness.” Firebeard nodded slowly.  


What more was there to say? Mertäg’s mouth went dry but she nodded at the sleepy court. She turned, her heavy fur cloak swinging out and catching wind as she darted down the empty set of stairs. Beautiful rays of light cut tall rectangles on the marble under her feet, each step punctuated by the sound of worn leather boot soles exiting the foyer. Tiny hands outstretched to open the Blue Palace door.

Swears dripped out of Mertäg’s mouth as she blustered home. Everything she needed to have a real shop, finally in her lap, after years of work and passion. Denied. Time and time again by a court of men who didn’t care for the world of mages and mer and the sub-market dedicated to them. Men who didn’t understand the complexities of Bosmer and Altmer and Dunmer fashion. Men who wore furs like hunters and savages.  


Her home was a slice of bricks pinched between the outer wall of Solitude and another similar slice. Low income homes, essentially. Her neighbors were a family of five; a Nord woman and a Redguard man, and three children in three shades of rust brown. Supporters of the Empire, “interbreeders” as any true-blooded Nord would call them. The wall on the other side was flanked by the open drop down the side of the outcrop Solitude lived on.  


A little dog greeted her at the door, waiting just inside for her to return. He yapped and piped until he was scooped into her arms like a baby. Even he had his own clothes, and even those clothes were enchanted.  


All around them loomed naked mannequins. Carved pieces of wood waiting for the dawning of apparel. Long dressers with display cases stood with impatience along the walls for the day they would be filled with shining jewels and gloves. Candles melted in the sconces and nooks. Mertäg blew them out.  


“It seems we are out of luck,” she sighed. “But you don’t care. You are happy anyway. What would I do without you?”  


Hopps barked.  


Long red fingers blazed through the attic windows as the evening encroached upon Solitude. Mertäg waved a hand at her unaddressed furs and linens, folding and stacking them neatly. Her work rested while she cleaned up the workspace around. A knock on her front door interrupted a great train of thought that intended to be written in a letter. Mad barking ensued from Hopps as the dog flew on short legs to the stairs and barked all the way down.  


Who would be knocking on her door? The mage from Cyrodiil wasn’t to arrive for another three days, and the associate from the College of Winterhold had been the week before. Her stomach dropped at the outlandish thought that Falk Firebeard had come to speak to her about her monthly addressing of the court. However her spirits lightened that it could possibly be Sybille wanting her to finally replace her boring blue robes with the red black design she had expressed liking for.  


But it was none of them. Standing in the arch of the door was a very unexpected and very welcome guest.  


“Melaran, come in.”  


The mage ducked inside. His back straightened and his head returned to its high position. He looked down at her, but only because he was a great deal taller than her. Mertäg swept the door shut behind him, and they ascended to her living area in silence.  


Melaran set a fine bottle of Argonian rum on the stone hearth. The label read ‘Slaughterfish Marsh Spiced’ and featured a scale pattern woodcut print. “I thought I’d come see how you were,” he began, adjusting himself in the cushioned chair. The fire was not lit, and a quiet whistle of wind echoed down the stone shaft. “You’ve been rejected several times now.”  


Mertäg settled her head in her palm and rested forward. Her eyes were loosely settled on the crack in the fireplace mortar, but her mind wandered.  


“And I thought you might like a drink.”  


Melaran uncorked the bottle, filling two pot metal cups with dark liquor. Smells both smooth and spicy assailed the air, strengthening as Mertäg took a cup closer to her face. She drank, absently.  


“I can’t believe it,” she sighed. “I’ve done so well. I’ve come so far. Why does it feel like none of it matters?”  


“Because the people of Skyrim don’t appreciate us for what we are.” Melaran sipped his rum at a much more controlled pace. “Mages and magic are a dying art; people like us are becoming extinct. I, for one, appreciate what you’re doing.”  


A fine fur shawl hung on his shoulders, dark red and complimented by the hood obscuring his black hair. Grey robes fell to his knees in an asymmetrical fashion, and black boots met his red breeches at his knees. All of it, head to toe, she had hand made for him. Even his gloves, which covered his arms until the sleeves could.  


Mertäg smiled at her own work. “I think I have an eye for this, if I do say so myself.”  


Melaran chuckled, “how is it that a Bosmer has the attitude of an Altmer?”  


“Be what you wish to become as good as.”  


Another chuckle escaped him. “And you’ve done a fine job of that. I’ve never felt so confident.”  


Peace fell on them. The candles melted slowly as darkness crept into the house. Only the ones above the fireplace had been lit, leaving the rest of the room in lonely night. But the orange glow was warm with life and cast a sheen over Melaran’s gold flesh. His hood left abrupt shadows over his face. Hopps lied quietly on the rug behind them, adjusting now and then and scratching an ear. Despite her failure once again, she felt almost at peace just basking in the warmth of company.  


“Erikur mentioned you today, after court let out.”  


Mertäg chided with buzz in her head, “how frightening…”  


“He’s taken a sort of liking to you… your spirit.” Melaran fidgeted with his empty cup, not looking at Mertäg. “I broached the subject with him before I came here. Some of this was his idea.”  


“He has fine taste in rum, if that’s what you mean.”  


Melaran huffed, “pardon you, I picked this.” He gave her a half smile as she looked up at him. “But you see, I asked about giving you a hand. Elves are… vastly overlooked here, sometimes. And Radiant Raiment has a tight hold on Elisif’s wardrobe.”  


“I know.” Mertäg sighed and shifted in melancholy. “I’m not a fool, I know that has a hand in my failures. Perhaps this isn’t the right town for me.”  


Melaran started internally at this. Quickly he told her, “Erikur had an idea, and asked me to be the bridge between you two.”  


“I won’t pretend I trust him, but he’s a well built tycoon.”  


“I feel the same. He may be the worst kind of thane for a housecarl, but he’s intelligent.” Melaran took a deeper drink, this time from the bottle. He passed it to Mertäg. “Taarie is falling behind on her payments to him. And that’s not something he’s known to deal with well.”  


Mertäg sat up, drinking as daintily as one could from the neck of a bottle. Her mind drifted briefly to the bowl of Elsweyr nuts she had sitting on her dining table, the ones she’d been given as a gift from the caravaners when she purchased all their silk. “They must be insane.”  


“They are. Because Erikur has suggested that you and he go to the Thalmor Embassy in a month for a party with Elenwen and all the other top dogs.”  


Mertäg almost choked on another drink. Melaran looked with concern at her until she was able to speak again. “He wants me to go up there with him?”  


“Yes.”  


“I’m no thane, and no Altmer.”  


Melaran took the bottle back, “But a Bosmer in this climate is a friend.”  


Mertäg took a moment to consider things. Melaran had another drink. “I’d love to. Gods, I’d love to just show off in front of a room of people, but the Thalmor? Those are friends in high places.”  


“Exactly. The kind of friends who could make you very rich.”  


Mertäg thought to the sound of Melaran drinking again. A chill crept along the floorboards and into her legs, and she drew them up into the chair. Hopps stirred when her chair creaked, rearranging in a ball on the rug. Melaran extended an arm towards the unused wood in the hearth and lit a fire. The soft glow of the candles was swallowed soon by the fire’s strength. Mertäg doused them.  


“Will you be going too?”  


Melaran gave a solemn shake of the head, “Erikur will want me to keep an eye on his empire while he’s gone.”  


Mertäg didn’t hide the fall of her face at this. Melaran commiserated with a similar look. She chewed her lip but replied, “I think it’s a grand idea.”  


“I’ll speak to him tomorrow. He’d prefer if you’d come to his home I’m sure.” Melaran smiled to try and rekindle the good mood before they were swallowed with drink and sorrow. “He mentioned a new outfit for the party. I thought you might like to bring some ideas with you?”  


Mertäg nodded, smiling half-heartedly.  


Melaran rose to his feet in a shaky fashion. His long fingers gripped the back of the chair when he felt he might fall. He had drank too much already. “I should get back to him. Keep the rum, I picked it especially for you.”  


“Come on now,” Mertäg grabbed his arm, stretching laxly in the chair and smiling. “Let’s finish this bottle. It’s excellent. I’ve got a bed upstairs you can stay in… And there’s always mine as well.”  


Melaran laughed, eyes lidded suddenly but gaze falling to the floor. A long shadow extended out from his feet, and another from her. They flickered in intensity, shifting just incrementally with every flick of the fire. “You know how things are… Walk me home at least, if you insist upon seeing me.”  


Mertäg rose from her seat, and took his arm as they helped each other down the stairs, to the door, and into the darkness outside.


End file.
